Wednesday, April 30, 2008

A Drop in the Fucking Bucket, Believe Me...

mommy (5:57:22 PM): by the way i'm not a bitch, you are

Thing One (5:57:35 PM): lol. whatev
Thing One (5:58:28 PM): i cant remember how to write a formal letter

mommy(5:59:25 PM): you can easily look up a formal letter format online
mommy (5:59:28 PM): douchebag
Thing One (6:00:51 PM): im going to be taking it to her...not mailing it
Thing One (6:01:29 PM): if i get misty some mark stuff for wholesale price, do you think she'll write it for me
Thing One (6:01:30 PM): lol
mommy (6:01:49 PM): oh for shits sake
mommy (6:01:53 PM): you can do it yourself
mommy (6:01:59 PM): how come you never offer to get me anything?
Thing One (6:02:10 PM): well, do you want to write it for me?
mommy (6:02:15 PM): no
Thing One (6:02:30 PM): then forget it
Thing One (6:02:33 PM): ha
Thing One (6:02:54 PM): i dont know how to do the block thing
Thing One (6:03:04 PM): just do that part for me and i'll write it
mommy (6:03:46 PM): did you go look?
mommy (6:03:55 PM): i think the modified block looks better
Thing One (6:04:02 PM): why do you put the addy twice?
mommy (6:04:09 PM): you moron
mommy (6:04:15 PM): the top one is YOUR address
Thing One (6:04:24 PM): oh lol
Thing One (6:04:32 PM): do you think i should do that part?
mommy (6:04:45 PM): Yes, since you won't be using letterhead
Thing One (6:04:50 PM): god
Thing One (6:04:56 PM): such a waste of trees
Thing One (6:05:04 PM): why cant i just email the bitch
mommy (6:05:10 PM): you are so gay! it will take you five minutes, tops
Thing One (6:05:21 PM): i talked to her! i couldve told her right there about the trip
Thing One (6:05:33 PM): i have to write about how i think the trip will enrich my undergrad exp
mommy (6:05:39 PM): hahahahahahahah
mommy (6:05:46 PM): fun, fun, fun!!!
Thing One (6:06:02 PM): ill say that i hope to sleep with as many germans as possible...
mommy (6:06:12 PM): yeah, that'll impress her
Thing One (6:06:20 PM): thats what i call enrichment
Thing One (6:06:21 PM): lol
mommy (6:06:24 PM): HAHAHA
mommy (6:06:29 PM): don't make me laugh, my head hurts
mommy (6:06:46 PM): I'm copying this whole fucking conversation and blogging it
Thing One (6:06:54 PM): lol fine.
mommy (6:07:07 PM): I need the world to know what I have to deal wiht
Thing One (6:07:24 PM): pshh. some people have it worse. what if i got knocked up at 16?
mommy (6:07:38 PM): well, if i remember correctly, you almost did
Thing One (6:07:58 PM): lol. no. theres no almost in pregnancy
Thing One (6:08:00 PM): hahaha
mommy (6:08:13 PM): I suppose you are correct in that
Thing One (6:08:27 PM): you will have to screen our aol names
Thing One(6:08:43 PM): i dont want the whole world knowing i was a teenage whore
Thing One (6:08:57 PM): actually, come to think of it, that would be a pretty good title for a book
Thing One (6:09:11 PM): "I Was a Teenage Whore"
mommy (6:09:18 PM): whore/schmore, you were probably a typical teenager
mommy (6:09:27 PM): in fact, i think you were somewhat less than average
mommy (6:09:32 PM): judging from what I see
Thing One (6:09:38 PM): psshhh whatevvv
mommy (6:09:49 PM): but then, maybe i don't know it all
mommy (6:09:55 PM): i'm always the last to know
Thing One (6:10:04 PM): hahaha. i dont like being called below average in anything
mommy (6:10:10 PM): hehehehe
mommy (6:10:13 PM): even whoredom?
Thing One (6:10:16 PM): yes.
mommy (6:10:30 PM): that's completely pathetic
mommy (6:10:35 PM): you should see a therapist
Thing One (6:10:36 PM): youre completely pathetic
Thing One (6:10:38 PM): blogger

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

100 Things About Me... Part Deux

I've been trying for about an hour now to write about my job. How I came by it, and how it has evolved over the last five years.

But my God, it's turning out boring as fuck, and LONG. And I just can't, in good conscience, subject you to that. I have Damon's ADD to think about, you know. So, I'll fiddle with it and dance with it and maybe somehow, I'll create something good out of it.

Or maybe I'll just push that delete button and send the motherfucker to an early but MUCH deserved grave.

In the meantime, I got nothing. Really. Nothing is happening. There is no gossip. I've heard nothing even remotely funny. Today, my middle name is BLAH. What better time than now to tell you 10 more things about me?

Here goes:

11. I am left handed. This means I listen to a lot of bullshit, and I take it good naturedly, because I'm probably more intelligent than the asshole riding me about which fucking hand I use to write with. You can't tell by looking at my handwriting that I'm a lefty. I don't have to turn my hand into a fucking hook to write, nor do I have to turn halfway around in my seat to achieve that left-handed-writing-zen... About the only way you would know, is if you look at my hand, and see all the ink I've dragged it through going back and forth across the page.

12. My eyes are HAZEL. Not brown. Not green. A curiously uninteresting mixture of both. I don't think it means anything interesting if you have hazel eyes. Except that even your fucking GENES couldn't decide what the fuck to do with you.

13. I am partial to sad songs. And sappy love songs.

14. I am a hopeless American Idol fanatic. Though the Great Sanjaya Debacle nearly made me throw in the towel.

15. I have a really hard time believing I don't deserve every bad thing that happens in my life. I am a firm believer in the whole Karma thing.

16. I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: I am terrified of Jell-O. This is probably due to the fact that Brother 2 used to assure me he'd put things in my food. Like BB's. And little soldier men. I was sure if I didn't check each bite with my fingers AND chew a hundred times, I would die a horrible, strangling death.

17. Karma has certainly come back to bite Brother 2 on the ass. That isn't a thing about me. But this is: I feel it is my duty to make his problems MY problems, and I have listened to more of his bullshit and heartache than any 10 therapists should have had to listen to. He ain't heavy, he's my brother... and all that.

18. I think that my two girls are the BEST things I ever did. Sure, they're bitches. You say that like it's a bad thing!! They're MY bitches, and if you ever try to hurt one of them, you will see what a bitch *I* can be.

19. I try not to have too many Philosophies-of-Life. Mostly I live by the "Leave me the fuck alone, and I won't bother YOU either" rule.

20. I think that sometimes, there are people who live their whole lives never getting to know or understand what it's like to be loved. You know, that fairy-tale love, where there are dangerous missions, daring rescues, and happily-ever-afters. I think I am one of those people....

Monday, April 28, 2008

Alright, who took my self-esteem?

I was clicking around the internets this morning, looking for inspiration, or at the very least, something to make me laugh, when I happened across a blog, I don't even remember which one it was, more's the pity, where the author wrote a letter to her body. In face, she said "everybody's doing it..."

Well, of course you know, in my never ending plot to be POPULAR, or even NOTICED, I have to do what everybody else is doing.

My middle name is "lemming," donchaknow.

Anyway, it seems that SOME PEOPLE are even doing a VLOG (I know, it confused me at first too. Thought I was in Transylvania, or something, with some really hot dude named VLAD, who had the whitest skin... and the sharpest teeth... rowr!!) of their letters to their bodies.

Well... I am not going to do that. Why? Because it wouldn't be PRUDENT at this juncture, you understand, to reveal my body to the world. And 'cause I lack that last little nugget of self-esteem which would allow me to do so.

But letter writing? Piece of frickin' cake. mmmm, cake.

Dear Body-Which-Just-So-Happens-To-Be-Attached-To-Me:

Holy frickin' Jeebus, I don't even know where to begin to tell you what I think of you. I think most people would start with the head, but I am NOT MOST PEOPLE, thank you very much. And so, I shall begin with my toes. Toes, I just want to tell you for the record, I think you really got screwed, being attached to my feet. You're not such bad little toes, as little toes go. Your nails leave much to be desired, they sit, right on the tips of you, and mock me, in their ugliness... And you are attached to feet which are much too wide, whose arches rival the ones at Mc'D's, and whose desire to never wear shoes have created callouses which can be likened to horse hooves.

Ankles, you disappeared long ago, you fucking cowards. Calves, what happened to you? There was a time when you were svelte and sexy... with just a touch of muscle definition. Now you are just two big long gobs of fatty goo... I hate you, you traitorous bitches.

Knees, enough with the popping and cracking already. You haven't seen a day's work in the whole of your lives, and I'm only 43, I'm not fucking 80. You make it impossible for me to steal Husband's cigarettes, in the dead of night. He can hear me coming from a mile away.

Thighs? Is that what you are calling yourselves these days? I'm sorry, I mistook you for tree stumps... Ditto, the hating you. You're not getting shaved until I can BRAID your hairs. Maybe that will hide your dimples on dimples of cellulite.

Girly bits? I have no complaints with you. Really. Just keep doing your job, and all will be fine. Ass, however, you have overstayed your welcome. Seriously. It's time to go. You don't do ONE fucking thing for me, except throw my hips out of joint, and jiggle at all the wrong times. Honestly, your cushioning leaves something to be desired also. Get the fuck outta here, you Whore of Babylon, in ten minutes I can replace you with a pillow with softness to the nth degree.

Hips, stomach and love handles: I cannot even bear to address you. You suck balls. And not even GOOD balls, such as might be found on Vlad the Vampire, no, you fuckers suck the balls of diseased cellar vermin. What did I ever do to deserve what you've done to me? I swear my affair with Little Debbie is OVER. She meant NOTHING to me. It was sex. Pure and simple. I didn't LOVE her. It was only for the mouthgasms she gave me. I am weak, I confess. But for you to punish me in this way for my weakness is just wrong. YOU ARE NOT RIGHT WITH GOD, hips and stomach. Love handles, I know it isn't your fault that you are here with me. But I will never EVER love you. So go away....

Back, shoulders, I admire you for TRYING to hold up boobs. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it. And you know that a job worth doing is worth doing RIGHT, so let's try to hitch 'em up, just a BIT higher, won't you please? At some point you will be compensated for your integrity and stick-to-it-tiveness...

Boobs, you poor, poor dears. The world would LOVE you, if only you would STAND UP and let them see you!! You are large, soft, and your cleavage is pleasing... once I get you all stuffed in a DDD bra, that is... Please take notice that as I struggle to reduce the size of my big-ness, you will shrink a bit, but that is as it should be, darling boobs, because you, like me, are not supposed to be this big. C-cups you once were, and as God is my witness, C-cups you shall be again. And when I am done, Brother 1, who is richer than God, will pay to put you back where you once lived, high up on my chest in glorious boobie splendor...

Arms, you're fat, I hate you... blah, blah, blah. Your main job these past few years has been primarily to shovel food into my mouth. Well those good times are over, chickies... Find a new hobby, get a life, make something of yourselves!! There are no free rides in this world, girls, and you need to start pulling your own weight around here!!

Hands and fingers? I adore you. Don't ever change. Especially left hand, who has served my letterwriting needs all these many years. Kisses to both of you, for being so wonderfully cute and good to me, if you know what I mean (wink, wink).

Neck, lose the moles and a couple hundred of the chins, and you will be as lovely as you once were... Smooth and graceful, you were, and never a moment's trouble you gave me. At least until the crop of little moley things prevented the wearin'-of-the-bling...

Hair, though you may be a bit thinner than you used to be, you are ever so much more obedient and cherished than ever before. Truly, you are the one thing I love most about me physically. Please, dear tiny baby Jesus, don't any more of you jump ship. I am dangerously close to a bald spot already, from your cowardly departure...

Face... oh face, what can I say to you? You are nearly the first thing anyone sees, when they look at me, and when you form yourself into a smile, you are a force to be reckoned with. What a fabulous smile you have, thanks in no small part to the orthodontia bestowed upon you by my beloved parents, all those many years ago. A little dimple, which would surely show up more clearly were I not the CORPULENT WITCH I currently am, sets off your smile with such delight. Your nose, which used to be such a cute little button-thing, has been literally SMEARED across you by my hands, due in large meaure to the allergens which attack me on a daily basis. That one little FUCKING LEFT EYE has grown exponentially lazier by the MINUTE, but your eyes still shine with intelligence, humor, and that secret SOMETHING, that makes me, ME. You aren't beautiful, face, but you have served me well for 43 years. Kisses on both cheeks for you.

All in all, body, I will say that you have done a pretty good job by not dying, with all that I've put you through. But I have much more life to live, and many more smiles to give, before I'm done here. So let's get our shit together, and get busy. There is much work to be done....


Miss Anne

Thursday, April 24, 2008

The Case of the Missing Bananas... Conclusion

I spent the rest of that day at work sick to my stomach, wondering what to do. Maybe I was overthinking things... maybe Mr. Dumb Head put those things in a bag only to get them out of the way... maybe I SHOULD have offered to pay them more, to cover what Mr. Dumb Head had done.

But the REAL issue, the thing that was threatening to send me over the edge, was the reaction that I knew Satan was going to have. I found myself hoping someone got sick and the whole crew would have to leave... I nearly called and told them to go ahead and leave early...

But that "Get your fucking money's worth, you MORON" thing kept getting in the way.

So, at 4:30, I drove home as slowly as I could. The garage door was open and Satan stood, his eyes burning into mine as I parked my car. I walked over to him, trying to gauge just how angry he was. "Hey," I said casually. "They're still here, I see."

"Why is there a man in my house?" he asked me quietly.

Oh shit. This was bad. I started to stutter and sputter out an answer, and then something stopped me. "HEY!" I thought to myself. "I'm just as angry as you are, this is absolutely not my fault." So I looked him square in the eye, and said, "They brought him with them. I don't like it, one little bit. Do you?"

He relaxed a bit then, the anger that he'd been ready to unleash on me redirecting itself to the three inside my house. "Miss Anne," he said. "You can't have them back. I don't want strange people in my house. I've got shit in there that's worth a lot of money. A woman might not realize what guns are worth, but most men would."

"Ok, I actually agree with you," I told him. And I told him how they had tried to fleece me for more money.

"If they actually come out and ask you for more money, send them out here to me. I'll take care of that."

I was actually grateful to him. Sometimes I can stand up to anyone, for any reason... but passive aggressive, I don't know how to deal with that.

We sat in the garage for awhile, smoking, talking, trying to decide whether to try and find someone else, or whether I should do it myself. You guys KNOW how I voted on that one, don't you? Right. No fucking way am I going to do it myself. I have a reputation to uphold....

Finally, at about 6:00, I told Satan, "I'm going in there. If SOMEONE doesn't come out in about 30 minutes, come in and save me."

I went in and I have to admit, they'd done good work. My kitchen walls were shiny and white. Counter tops were gleaming. My stovetop looked almost new. They hadn't gotten to my kitchen window yet, but everything else in the kitchen and living room looked very good. But they were STILL working. It was 6:00. I was tired. I was hungry. Satan was hungry.

I walked into my living room and sat down at my computer. It was off again. The last time Linda was here, she'd turned off my computer too. What the fuck? Why do you need to turn my computer off? It takes FOREVER to load everything up. I'll fucking be ASLEEP before this thing is up and read for me to use it. GRRRRR.

While I'm smoking a cigarette (and I had to HUNT for an ashtray, for piss sakes, they'd carried them all to the kitchen) and waiting for my computer to boot up, I listened to the conversation coming from the kitchen. Bits and pieces of truly stupid conversation drifted in to me. "You ever been to the beach Mr. Dumb Head..." "Yeah, I don't care for it. I'm probably unique that way... I don't like the ocean..."

Suddenly, I hear Daisy Doofus, fat sister extraordinaire, say, "You gonna tell her about the bananas?" My ears perked up at this. Bananas? What could they have to tell me about the Bananas? Was there a Banana Incident? A Great Banana Debacle? What the fuck happened to my bananas?

I heard Linda WHISPERING furiously. But I couldn't hear what she was saying. My computer chose that EXACT moment to spit and spew and blink and pop and fizz and stutter to life. My ears are actually PULLING MY HEAD BACK in their attempts to hear what was happening in the kitchen.

I logged into my computer, whispered for it to PLEASE. SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. ALREADY. and leaned back in my chair as if I were exhausted. That got my head about three inches closer to the kitchen, and I listened carefully.

But I heard nothing. Fuck.

I turned around and was just standing up to walk in there, when out they came. The three of them, marching in a straight line, towards my front door. There were mumbled goodbyes, and thank you's and nice to meet you's... Linda stopped with her hand on my door knob. "We'll be back Monday and Wednesday of next week," she said.

And they promptly left.


"You'll be back next week?" I thought. "You've made that decision for me, have you? You're gonna come in here for another 200 dollars of my money? Who ya gonna bring next time? You're Aunt Sally? The FUCK you will be here next week."

I walked purposefully into the kitchen, looking for signs of a Banana Mishap. I found none. I also found no bananas. There had been four, when I went to work that morning.

All of a sudden I was so fucking angry I had to sit down. This was just too much. They fucking stole my bananas! What kind of fucking person comes into your house to clean it, for decent money, I might add, and then steals your food?

And they took my BANANAS. My bananas, my miracle food. The lovely, lovely sweet fruit, which provides 23% of the dietary fiber I need each day. 33% of the vitamin C. 41% of the vitamin B6. 23% of the Potassium. 30% of the manganese. The Banana, a low fat, low cholesterol, low sodium food of the gods.

Satan walked in and said, "Well? What did they say? Did they ask you for more money? Did you tell them we don't want them back?"

I looked at him through horror-filled eyes. "Dude, they stole my bananas," I whispered.

Satan looked at the counter top where the bananas USED TO BE. He walked over and looked in the top of the trash bag. He looked in cabinets and the fridge. There was no bananas. There was no SIGN of a banana. There wasn't even a USED PEELING. "Well, either they ate peeling and all, or they hid the peeling, hoping we wouldn't notice the bananas were gone."

I told him about what I had heard Daisy Doofus asking Linda. And about how Linda had whispered her answer. "They can never come here again." I vowed. Satan agreed. And that was that.

Linda called me on Sunday night, to tell me she was sick and couldn't come on Monday. Oh, how I wish I could tell you that I told her EXACTLY what I thought of her and her banana pilfering sister and Mr. Dumb Head. But of course I am a card carrying member of the "Biggest Fucking Coward's of America" club, and so what I said was, "Linda, I'm broke (though this is indeed true. I'm always broke.) I cannot afford for you to come next week. I don't get paid till Wednesday, and all my money is already earmarked for other bills. I will call you when I need you again."

"Well, don't wait too long," says Linda. "As it gets warmer, we get more busy. You may not get me for awhile. In fact, I'd really like to get your house finished before the end of April anyway. You think about it."

Now, it's important for you to understand something here. While it is true that I am always broke, I am not a greedy or selfish person. I DO have enough money to buy more bananas. And had Linda called me at work and said she was hungry, I would have directed her to my fridge, which held sandwich makings, milk, fruit, steaks, and the like. Or to my cabinets, which held plenty of soups, snacks, and peanut butter.

Had she told me, when I got home, "Miss Anne, I got hungry and ate your bananas." I wouldn't have minded a bit.

But she TOOK something from me without asking. She took it and she HID the evidence. And she INSTRUCTED the riff-raff that she brought with her to NOT TELL ME.

They stole from me. It doesn't matter if it was a nickel, or a thousand dollars. It doesn't matter if it was a fucking banana, or a big giant gun. Or a playstation II with all the accoutrements. They stole and they lied by NOT TELLING ME.

You can't steal from me. I'll give you anything I have, if you need it, and if I can. But don't you fucking take it and then deliberately not tell me. Especially after fleecing me for more money than we agreed on for a job you are doing for me.

You fucking FUCK.

And your stupid, fat sister.

And Mr. Dumb Head.

Case closed, mystery solved, you're fired, I win.

The end.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Case of the Missing Bananas... part 2

So, when last we spoke, "Linda" was about to leave my house to go pick up her sister, whose car had broken down.

I put Linda and her sister and their troubles out of my mind and went back to work. Thursdays are a bit frantic for me, as I have generally laid about and done nothing on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and, knowing that I'm off on Fridays, I scurry about like a poisoned rat, trying to get my desk cleaned off and my gigantic pile of files completed and put away before I go home. The boss' wife sits at my desk on Fridays, and it wouldn't do to have the SAME work there, week after week. Someone may get suspicious.

But alas, the pile never fully goes away. It is a sad truth in the legal profession that NO CASE is ever fully dispensed-with. Meaning, in short, that we never truly get rid of ANY of those fuckers. And Social Security is THE worst. The Social Security Administration spews more paperwork than you can possibly imagine, and they don't just send out letters. They send copies of letters too. For every letter our clients get, we get one also. As do their doctors and grandmothers, and third grade teachers. It's not hard work, keeping up with it all, but it IS busy-work, and ANY work is generally more work than I want to do.

At any rate, I did as much as I could do felt like doing on Thursday, up to about 11:30, then I zipped to the kitchen to prepare my boss something delicious for his lunch. Delicious is a relative term around our office, as my boss considers a fluffy sardine-onion-feta cheese omelet to be a delicious thing....

Promptly at 12:00-ish, I hied myself away home to put the puppies out to pee. As I approached my house, I heard laughter and much merrymaking. This inspired me. "They must really love cleaning," says I to me, "to be laughing and having such a great time..." Then I heard something that pulled me up short:

A man's laugh. A man. Laughing. IN. MY. HOUSE!

What the SAM-HILL is going on here? There's only ONE man who ever is in my house, and HE. DOES. NOT. LAUGH.

I proceeded with caution, my ears fine-tuned and honed in suspiciously on those chortles, guffaws, and trills of free-hearted glee.

Finally, I came to my door and JERKED it open quickly. I wanted to catch 'em in the act... whatever that act happened to be to cause such laughter. I knew most of MY laughter happens in the bedroom, thank you very much, and I wanted to discover what it was about my living room which inspired such hilarity.

I walked in quickly, shouted "Hey there!" and opened the door to Thing 2's room, as my sharp-as-a-whatever you call those little sharp thingies mind gathered and processed information from my eyes and ears at lightening speed. That is to say, I ducked into Thing 2's room, but not before I noticed a STRANGE man on his knees cleaning my television screen, Linda BEHIND the tv cleaning the wall, and her FAT SISTER seated on her FAT KEISTER in my FAVORITE chair in front of my desk.

Linda called me back to the living room. "This is my sister, something-or-other, and her boyfriend Mr. Dumb Head....

Now, here's the thing. I'm not sophisticated. I'm not outrageously-insanely intelligent. I'm not prejudiced against people for things they cannot control, like race, or looks, or things of that nature. I'm not even, as a general rule, prejudiced against people for things they CAN control, like weight, or religious affiliation, or popularity.

Having said that, let me tell you that I LOATHE stupid people. I can spot 'em a mile away and I HATE those motherfuckers. I know it isn't fair. I know it isn't nice. But oh my sweet crispy jeebus, I cannot tolerate the face of idiocy. I'd sooner be boiled naked in a vat of hot fish oil than spend ONE MINUTE of my precious life in the company of a stupid person.

And I could tell the moment I laid eyes on Mr. Dumb Head that he was dumber than a five pound bag of stupid.


I tried to hold my breath. Because I don't even like sharing my AIR with these people. I don't want YOUR stupid mixing around in the same space occupied by MY crazy. The air becomes be-fouled, unclean, and possibly filled with poisonous gases.

But I retained my composure. Because my middle name is "Grace Under Pressure". And I said hello to the STOO-PID head, and his STOO-PID head girlfriend. Then I turned my back on them and retrieved my darling puppies, and took them outside.

When I came back in, I needed to get from Point A, which is inside my front door, to Point B, which is in front of my FRIDGE, because it was lunchtime and I was hungry. I decided to just make an attempt at barreling through the giant cloud of STOO-PID that was quickly filling up my living quarters.

But, sadly, it was not meant to be. Linda informed me that Mr. Dumb Head had a "question" for me. shit. I was gonna have to trade dialogue with this amateur.

"Yes?" I politely inquired, whilst attempting to look at a spot just over Mr. Dumb Head's left shoulder, because I cannot make myself look into the eyes of my enemy. And my enemy is STOO-PID. In any form.

"Whatchoo want for that Playstation 2, and those pads?" asks Mr. Dumb Head.

Wait. What? I just stood there and blinked. I had no clue what this moron was asking me, which doesn't say a whole hell of a lot about MY intelligence level, just at that moment, does it? "Oh Gawd!" I could hear myself think. "I'm getting dumber just being in the SAME ROOM as these creatures.

"Come here and I'll show you." says Mr. Dumb Head.

Oh, like I haven't heard THAT one before, Mr. Dumb Head.....

Better men than you, and most of them Dumb Heads too, have called me over to have a look-see, at this or that. I figured if he flashed me, I would scream, "Oh my Gawd! That looks like a PENIS! Only SMALLER!!" He would then die of embarrassment, thus ensuring my escape.

But no, he didn't call me over to stare at his Penile Projection. What he DID call me over for, was to see, tucked away neatly in a BLACK trash bag, folded and cords wrapped, was Thing 2's playstation 2, her Guitar Hero guitar, her Dance, Dance Revolution pad, her Karaoke microphone, and my Trivia clicker thingies. About 400 dollars worth of merchandise, I think, if I remember correctly putting all that shit on my various CREDIT CARDS. They will have cost me 52,000 dollars by the time I am finished paying for them, but that's neither here, not is it there.

My brain was trying to come up with a logical reason why this DOINK had my kids' shit in a BLACK trash bag, and fervently hoping I wasn't going to have to perform a Citizen's Arrest!! to regain possession of my merchandise.

What I SAID was: "Dude, NO! My kids just got all that shit for Christmas. It's not for sale. No way. No. Did I mention NO?" I'm also thinking, "All of this shit is in my living room floor, cables and shit hooked up to my television, tucked under this and that and OBVIOUSLY well used, even though new. What the fuck would make you think I would want to sell it?

At this point, I was fairly pissed off, and decided to make my exit. I'd pick up something for lunch at Wendy's, my home away from home.

Linda stopped me just as I opened the screen door. "Are you gonna lay my money out today? Or not?" I stopped in my tracks and turned to look at her. I thought it such a crass thing for her to say, that I, for a moment couldn't think of anything to say back to her. Finally, I found my voice. "Why yes, Linda, I certainly don't aim to cheat you. I just figured since you were working later today, I would pay you when I get home. But here, let me get your money for you now, just so we don't FORGET to pay you."

I got the money out of my purse and handed it over. Just as it dropped into her hand, Linda spoke again, "Did you know Mr. Dumb Head works at "Insert name of Fancy Schmancy Resort"? He works at the golf course.

I wondered how on earth to pull my face into a look that showed I CARED. "Huh." says I. That was the extent to which I have a shit where Mr. Dumb Fuck Head worked. And I turned for the door again.

"Miss Anne," said Linda. Oh come the FUCK ON, I'm thinking. What, do you want to tell me how well he's HUNG now? I pasted a blank look on my face and turned back to her. "Yes, Linda?"

"Yeah, he works at the golf course, and since my sister, Daisy Doofus' car broke down this morning, he couldn't get to work. I had to go pick them up, but I didn't have time to get him to HIS job this morning. So, he's been helping US."

And suddenly, it all clicked. Those SONS-of-WHORES were trying to get more money! I was so angry that, had I a hatchet in my hand, surely one of them would have left my home that day with nearly TWO heads. I wanted to ram their car with mine. I wanted to pour buckets of Pine-Sol infused water over their heads. I wanted to let the puppies chew on the tender flesh of their necks....

But what I did was turn around and smile. "How about that!" I exclaimed. "Lucky me, right?"
And I walked my fat ass out that door and into my car, spun off down the road, screaming and cursing the children of their CHILDREN's children as I sped back to work.

I was gonna have to tell Satan how they'd tried to fleece me. I would have to tell him about the games in the black trash bag. Satan would be apoplectic to discover a man in the house anyway. Oh, God help me Jesus, this was not going to go well. A big fat waxy ball of dread plopped into my stomach and commenced to making my insides fester and bleed....

I would find myself more angry than Satan that evening, as a matter of fact...

to be continued...

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

The Case of the Missing Bananas...

Dear Internets: I am adding this little update to inform you that, due to a shockingly stupid move on my part, I lost most of my Twitter followers. Like, last week. I've gotten some of them back, but dang it, I want 'em all!! If you followed me on Twitter, go check it out and make sure you still have me. If you don't, look for Miss Ann Derstood and follow her please.... We'll go someplace nice... like, I dunno, Denny's or something...

Oh, if only I had an "Ethel" to make all my little mistakes and foibles look "cute". If only Satan would put his hands on his hips and, in a lovingly exasperated way say to me, "Miss Anne! You got some 'splainin' to-do!" And then my face would crumple in this really delightful way and I'd say, "AAAAAGGGGHHHH! I'm sorry, Satan!! I can't do AAAANNNYthing right! AAAAGGGGHHHH!" And then he's say, "Awww, hawnee, i's ok, hawnee!"


But that isn't what happened, internets... Here, let me 'splain to you what hah-penned:

So, y'all know I am something of a no-good-nik around the house. I don't like to clean. And that's surely a bold understatement. I hate it with a passion that borders on obscenity. I hate it so bad, I... well, I simply refuse to do it. That's all. You know how some people have the motto, "If it feels good, do it?" Well, so do I. And housework doesn't feel good.

Satan and I have gone round and round about this for centuries. Or, at least, you know... 24 years. I have NEVER been a good housewife. I'll never BE a good housewife. I have other, better, MAD skillz...

1. Like, for instance, I'm a fabulous cook. Oh, I'm not a gourmet chef, for sure. But, when the cupboards are bare, the fridge is empty, and the bank account dry, I can take a can of beans, a handful of rice, an onion a green pepper, and a few spices, and make a MEAL. Plus, I can make cornbread that'll make you wanna go home and slap yo' momma, just for fun.

But Satan? He don't like most of the food I cook. He likes MEAT. Just big gobs of meat, slung out over a plate and piled high with sour cream and salt and cheese.... Dear God, it's disgusting what that man will eat.

2. I've got a fabulous sense of humor. If I can't enthrall you with my great beauty, mostly because I don't HAVE any great beauty, then I can at least entertain you with my rapier wit. I like to laugh. I like things that are funny. If I have to make fun of myself to make YOU laugh, well, then so be it. If you cut me, I will bleed little clown noses...

But Satan? He don't like to laugh so much. And while that makes him the PERFECT straight man, it gets to be a drag when I can't produce so much as a smile on that beardy face of his.

3. I am handy to have around. I know how to program the VCR, the microwave, and the oven. If something is wrong with the computer, or the printer, or the modem, I can usually play around with it long enough to get it working. I can set the alarm clocks, fetch the voice mail, read a MAP, a RULER, and assembly instructions for nearly anything.

But Satan? Never watches anything but murder shows on TV, would rather DIE than get on the computer, doesn't give a SHIT about voice mail, never goes ANYWHERE he would need a map, and would rather pay that extra 10 dollars to have EVERYTHING assembled by someone else.

4. I have a really cute smile, great hair, and barring that PESKY LITTLE LEFT ONE, I have bedroom eyes...

But Satan? Doesn't smile, doesn't give a tiny rat's ass about hair, and wouldn't know a flirty stare if it gutted him like a fish. He has been known to rant, on more than one occasion--"What the fuck are you lookin' at? What's wrong with your eye?", when I turn those bedroom eyes on him.

5. I can suck a football through a garden hose.

But Satan? ... Well, now that I think about it, he kinda likes that about me...

But I digress...

After years and years of fighting and threatening and pissing and moaning about the house, we finally agreed to hire a cleaning lady. And I had just the one. Let's call her LINDA. Linda used to be the cleaning lady for my boss and his wife. She comes highly recommended. My boss' wife says NO ONE can clean like Linda.

So, I call Linda up on the phone, arrange to meet her at my house for a look-see, agree to her price of $65 dollars for an eight-hour day (can you BELIEVE that? I don't know whether to be tickled to death or mad as hell).

And promptly wait 3 weeks to ever get her there. First SHE was sick... Then *I* was sick... Then her MOM was sick... I was beginning to think Linda was a figment of someone's wicked imagination, when finally, she showed up at my door.

To give the poor thing credit, she never even FLINCHED when she saw my house. She looked a tad GREEN around the GILLS when she saw the enormous pile of DISHES in my sink, on my counters, on the stove, and on the kitchen table. There may have even been a few on the floor. But I assured her that all the dishes would be done prior to her arrival, and she agreed to come the following Monday.

On Sunday, she called me up and offered to bring her SISTER for only $35 dollars more per day. I cleared it with Satan, who said, "Oh God! Yes! The more the merrier! I'm MADE of money!" That Satan... he's so quirky and cute sometimes...

I sat in a dream-like fog all day Monday, dreaming of windows you could see through, walls you wouldn't be afraid to touch, and kitchen counters that you could actually set a slice of bread on, without fear of catching CHICKEN DEATH...

Thing 2 went home at lunch to put the babies (which are 3 year old DOGS, by the way, and certainly do not count as babies anymore, but they will always be babies to US) out to pee. She came back up to my office and said, "What are we paying Linda's big fat SISTER for? She's sitting at your desk, twiddling her thumbs..."

I was not to be discouraged. "She's probably tired from WORKING SO HARD, and is taking a short break," opined I.

And when I walked through my front door on Monday evening, I WAS tickled to death. Not in the strictest sense of the word, mind you, but the house SMELLED of pine-sol, the walls were CLEAN! and the TURKEY OF DOOM had been brushed free of the 3-inch layer of dust which had nearly hidden him from my view. (Ok, I wasn't so happy 'bout the turkey of doom.)

Tuesday morning, Linda called and said she had a migraine. She'd be there Thursday. I had kind of expected this, because my boss' wife had told me she could be a bit flaky about showing up as scheduled. "If you can put up with her millions of excuses about why she CAN'T come in today," said my boss' wife, "You'll LOVE her, because she's the BEST at cleaning. The BEST!"

Hell, I can put up with about anything. I've been married to fucking SATAN for 24 years! A migraine is no match for MY mad patience.

That brings us to Thursday... The day that I had SUCH high hopes and bright sunny feelings for. Linda calls me at 10:00 and says, "I'm here working, but my sister's car broke down and I need to go pick her up. Is that ok? I'll work later this evening to make up for the time." Awww. That Linda is such a cutie, I thought. Of COURSE it's ok, long as I get my full 8 hours, from each of you. My middle name IS "Get my money's worth" you know.

Little did I know, the crimes that were about to be perpetrated upon my little dirty house...

to be continuted...

Sunday, April 20, 2008

How a perfectly good Saturday goes bad...

So, I get up yesterday morning in a totally shitty mood. There's a reason for it, but I choose not to go there. Suffice it to say that SOMEONE chose Friday night as their "Night to be NOT NICE."

I had a very good conversation with Dory, who, by the way, totally answered questions that I posed to her a MILLION years ago, and I did not link to them. Because I am a lazy bitch, I think. Or maybe I forgot. Or a combination of the two, probably. Anyway, the conversation with Dory helped rise me up out of the muck a bit.

A hilarious email from my friend Mark Willie helped some more.

And a conversation with someone else made me decide to MAKE MY SATURDAY COUNT. I was bound and determined to make yesterday ALL ABOUT MISS ANNE. In fact, I declared yesterday ALL ABOUT MISS ANNE DAY. And thusly, I spoke it into existence.

I got a shower and headed out. Note that the sun was shining when I made my declaration, and it was RAINING when I headed out. But I was not to be deterred.

I headed to Starbucks for a triple vanilla latte-add whip, which is indeed the nectar of the Gods. I remarked that it was nearly a sexual thing.... Add in a cigarette and it was orgasmic... I'm gonna need a moment to revel in the afterglow.... AHHHHHHHH....

So, um.. ok, after the coffee and cigarette, I drove around aimlessly for a while, listening to Daughtry with the windows down. And yes, I did sing. At the top of my lungs. I sang "Over You" something like 27 times. Or maybe more. I kept backing up through parts of it. That song is a very good song. I'm just sayin'.

Then I went to my office and worked hard for 3 hours. I am awesome. It's official. It's been announced somewhere, I'm sure...

Husband showed up at my office to search hi and low for "The Man Who Drives a Red Truck and Parks Beside Me". I had to shorten his name from "The Man Who Drives a Red Truck and Parks Beside Me and Walk With a Cane, and I Don't Know Where the Fuck He Works, Thank You Very Much, Because I Don't Know Him, Get It?" Because that was just a mouthful, let me tell you. After not finding any strange men, and noting the rising pile of work I had completed, and thus figuring that THERE WAS NOTHING TO SEE HERE, husband left, and I continued working, unimpeded.

Had another great conversation, via text, with someone who declared me "totally kissable" and really, who can argue with that? Ahem.. What I meant to say is, "And really, who wouldn't like to hear that?" What a great Saturday.

Then I remembered.... Holy shit, today is Satan's Birthday. Satan is a loving pet name I gave my husband 24 years ago. I believe it was on our wedding night. But memory is a foggy thing with me. It could have been the next day. Or the day I met him....

I hurried home and offered him the only present I could afford... *Note to self: Next year? Save money for a STORE BOUGHT present.

I prepared a veritable cornucopia of fried items, a meal truly fit for the King of the Netherworld. And there was Cheesecake! Oh thank you for creating Cheesecake, Dear Lord Jesus God.

As befits a man of his status, Husband stood in the kitchen, naked as a jaybird, and ate his dinner. That's right. STANDING UP. Most of him, anyway. Then, he spotted a moth, and went on the HUNT. That is when THIS conversation took place:

Me: What the hell are you doing?
Husband: I gotta kill this moth.
Me: Why are you dragging that chair over to the fridge... OH MY FREAKING GOD, you are gonna show your little tiny peepee to all our neighbors?
Husband: Stop doing that.
Me: Stop doing what?
Husband: Saying "Little Tiny PeePee."
Me: "stares pointedly at little tiny peepee"
Husband: Shut up.
Me: I just call 'em like I see 'em.

As I munched delightedly on CHEESECAKE!! straight from the package, with a fork, we had this delightful interchange:

Husband: Stop doing that.
Me: Do you realize that most of our conversations begin with your telling me to stop doing something?
Husband: Stop eating all the strawberries.
Me: Do you not see this GARGANTUAN pile of strawberries? I am not eating them. I am moving them to the side.
Husband: Why?
Me: So I have greater access to the CHEESECAKE!!
Husband: Well, stop doing that! It's a strawberry cheesecake! You're supposed to eat the strawberries too!
Me: "blink"
Husband: WHAT?!?!?!
Me: Dude, you just told me NOT to eat the strawberries. Then you said, EAT THE STRAWBERRIES. I'm confused, a little. Do I eat a strawberry? Do I not? I am frozen in INDECISION.
Husband: You're a smartass, you know that?
Me: I'm just wishing your peepee were on top of this CHEESECAKE!! Then I could move it aside to get at the CHEESECAKE!!
Husband: You're an asshole.
Me: That is entirely possible.

Later, I tucked him in bed, and got on the computer. Because Rhapsody was calling my name. And more specifically, Creedence Clearwater was calling my name....

As I twirled and stomped and danced and swayed and SANG!! my way through Midnight Special, Lookin' Out My Backdoor, Proud Mary, and Midnight Special THREE more times, I wished desperately for some booze. I rummaged around in the fridge, found a Smirnoff Ice, and some old WINE, and some BUDWEISER, and had myself a guzzle or two...

And it's not a good thing when I drink anything. ANYTHING at all....

This morning, I discovered an embarassing exchange of text messages on my cell phone. And I deleted them before I fully realized the comic treasure that I held in my hands. I might have declared myself PLOPPED. I might have noted that I FUCKED SATAN. I might possibly have even told that someone to stop INTRUSTING me....

Holy mother of God, I am an IDIOT. Dear Person Who Got Those Text Messages: It isn't my fault I'm stoo-pid. I'm just drawn that way....................

Friday, April 18, 2008

100 Things About Me... Part the Oneth...

So, I decided to do another 100 things about me. It's been awhile, and maybe a few blogs ago, since I did a 100 Things thing.

This time I decided to break it up into sections, just like all the cool kids are doing.

1) I say "done" instead of "finished". And I'm not ashamed of it.

2) I would never stick a french fry in a frosty, and will gut, like a fish, anyone who attempts it in my presence.

3) I fully believe that I have not had enough sex in my lifetime. Then again, I also fully believe I've had entirely too much.

4) I refuse to believe that Hugh Laurie farts, picks his nose, or chews with his mouth open. The man is a god, people.

5) I do not have control of my destiny. This may not be a bad thing. I do not have control of my bladder, either.

6) The TURKEY of DOOM sits above my desk and looks down on me in disdain.

7) I do not like the TURKEY of DOOM.

8) I think men are like cute little puppy dogs.

9) I like puppy dogs.

10) If I lost my ability to read, I would throw myself off a cliff.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

A haiku

Miss Anne wishes life
Didn't hurt so fucking much
She wants to sleep now...

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

SCRABBLE!! It's the newest aphrodisiac!!

You guys know how I love Scrabble. I was delighted to discover that I could play on Facebook. Nobody in my family can beat me, so they won't play with me. I'm not bragging. I've been playing Scrabble since I was a li'l kid. And I knows me lots of words.

Imagine, if you will, my shock and horror at realizing that SOME really, really stupid people are using my beloved Facebook Scrabulous as a means to their own end. And by end, I mean perverted sexual deviations. What a bunch of FUCKWITS. See, Scrabulous lets you post a REQUEST for a game, and anyone who sees your request and happens to want to sit down for a rousing good game can ACCEPT that request, and voila! The game is afoot.

But some seriously deranged people have come up with a way to FUCK with the purity of thought and love of all things word-y that encompasses a good game of Scrabble.

Of course, I had to share some with you....

Here's what some of these DOINKS are posting in their requests. I've added my thoughts in bold RED:

only cute girls who are looking for a naughty chat... type "yes" if your interested
What I'm mostly interested in, you ignorant ASSCAKE, is seeing an end to the era of the "I'm too lazy and/or stupid to add the EXTRA TWO characters it takes to use the grammatically correct YOU'RE" debacle. But then, I'm not a "cute girl," so what do I know?

Looking for feisty, flirty, filthy & fabulous women who fancy a quickie...
Here is a classic example of how ALLITERATION is not always a good thing. I'm ok with feisty, flirty and fabulous. But FILTHY? What the fuck? Is this a sexual thing, or are you just into grunge?

I don't want weird chat. I prefer ladies. I dislike pumpkin soup. This beard was temporary. I enjoy hats.
Hee. I'll play scrabble with you anytime, darling. (And in fact, I did. Wonderful game. I won. The end.)

START NOW AND FINISH IN ONE SITTING. Do you hear me? If you disappear after a few moves I will come after you and drink your blood in your skull.
Methinks you could use a therapist, sweetie. Or perhaps you are simply in the wrong room. The "SATANIC SCRABBLE SQUAD" meets down the hall.

young girls only pls, who wants sex chat! strat chat with somethin hot...
Ok, Chester-the-Molestor, do TWO things for me. No, wait... THREE. 1) Learn to spell... this is a fucking SCRABBLE game, you fucking moron. No, wait, only TWO things. 2) DIE. Ok, no, three. 3) please learn verb tense. It's a beautiful thing.

wives in UK for hot fun
Hey commitment-phobe! Find a girl. Settle down.

i like playing with men .. he he
Honey, don't we all? But seriously, do I need to remind you that this is SCRABBLE, not SPIN-THE-FUCKING-BOTTLE?

Glamourous LADY magicians assistant required for sawing in half and scrabulous. No cheaters or wordfinders
Damn, someone grabbed you up before I got a chance to ask you which comes first. The sawing or the Scrabbling.

Size 16 or bigger GIRLS, UK only plz, If you don't look that big on your pic I will delete :-)
Am I missing something here? Are fat ENGLISH girls smarter than fat AMERICAN girls? How exciting to know that all I need to do is move to the UK, where they APPRECIATE us fat girls. And oh, how we BBW's TRY to look THAT BIG in our pics..... I hope a building falls on your penis.

young hot guy....loves older naughty woman...lets play
Aw, aren't you just adorable. Here's my number, call me... Love, Mrs. Robinson

G a y scrabble with a strange chap in jAKARTA?
GAY Scrabble? SERIOUSLY? That's a real thing?

no nose pickers. no people in a rush. no al qaeda, no antelopes. no scousers. no smelly people. no chocolate santas. no retards. anyone else is fine, av score 370/380.
Couple of quick things: 1) What's a scouser? 2) You have "smell-net?" How cool is that? I think I'd PREFER the antelopes, thanks....

Looking for a filthy girl for a quickie....
Again with the filthy? Is filthy the new CLEAN? Nobody told ME! I've been bathing every fucking day! What a waste! No wonder I can't get a man... Well, you know, if I weren't married and all...

Looking sleazy girl to talk dirty to me
Honey, do me and yourself a favor. Write a letter to your mommy. Go read a book. Blow some bubbles. I know it's lonely out there, but seriously, sleazy girls are just... sleazy.

more chat than scrabble...flirty women please
So, let me get this straight... You post a REQUEST for a SCRABBLE game... but you really only want a CHAT. With a FLIRTY woman. Honey, the FLIRTY women are out there in the WORLD, having sex with MEN. The rest of us just want a fucking peaceful game of SCRABBLE. Go out. Mix. Mingle. You'll meet that flirty woman. REALLY. I promise. You'll find her. OUT IN THE WORLD.

A challenge to all beautiful sexy undergrads , grads, and PhD's to play erotic scrabble... chat on AIM YAHOO or GMAIL PROFILE PIC OR DELETE!
Well, aren't YOU just the little fucking SNOB! No dummies, uglies or prudes for YOU, huh? Or you will DELETE!! Golly. I think I may have gone to high school with you....

Looking for a feisty, flirty woman for some fun while we play...
See, the PLAYING is the FUN thing, you MOOK. It's SCRABBLE. Sex is fun. SCRABBLE is fun. Both work just fine as a stand-alone endeavor.

Here's some advice for you, pumpkin: Lay off the fucking coffee. And you needn't worry about the braniacs... I cannot imagine anyone with an IQ over 50 would seriously spend an hour of their time hoping to catch a glimpse of your naked funky chicken. And, pray tell, GENIUS, what is Nd? Is the word AND so long for you that you have to FUCKING abbreviate it?

And my all time, most FAVORITE request:

i need to be touched
Sweetie, I'm gonna be gentle with you, because it's quite obvious you are a deranged serial killer. But there is SO MUCH wrong with those 5 little words. I'll just touch on the MAJOR ones: 1) You can't be touched here. YOU ARE ON THE COMPUTER. 2) No one is really here to TOUCH YOU anyway. This is a FUCKING SCRABBLE GAME. For the love of all that is HOLY and SCRABULOUS, this is a game of skill, intelligence, and strategy. It is not a dating service. It is not therapy. (something of which, by the way, you are sorely in need) It is not a WHOREHOUSE, or a sex shop, or a fetish-ist's WET DREAM. IT IS A GAME. 3) I'm sorry that your mommy beat you. Or burned you with the waffle iron. Or whatever she did to you that fucked you up so badly. 4) There is a whole great big world out there... full of other nutjobs like you, who probably would be THRILLED to touch you. Don't kill any of them with an icepick. Don't play Scrabble with any of them either.

Monday, April 14, 2008

It's bloody fucking monday again, ain't it?

I have decided that, since my brain is never fully open for business until TUESDAY, that I shall declare this particular day of the week "Meaningless Meandering Monday!!" A day in which I can spew forth stream-o'-consciousness ramblings like vomitus at a frat house kegger. And without further ado, let us begin the first


  • So, I found out that I'm fairly good at writing porn. Who knew? I have, however, been assured that it is so. I would post it here and let you read it, because my middle name is "I'll fucking post ANYTHING," but really, a girl's gotta have a few secrets, right?
  • I have actually located a cleaning lady who did NOT run screaming from my house at first sight. She comes this a.m. to work her magic, and I can tell you, it CAN'T happen soon enough for me. Thank God I have a job, so I can't be called on to help her. *confidential to the Husband: Remember when I said I would pay you back whatever she charged you, because I am lazy and good for nothing (except for writing porn!!) and hiring her was MY idea? Dude... I totally had my fingers crossed behind my back.
  • Thing 2 wants to go visit her sister at college this week, as it is Spring Break for some here in good ol' West-by-God-Virginia, and Husband has nixed the idea. Which totally pisses me off, because Husband must travel to Virginia this week, and I was totally gonna spend that whole day writing PORN. I'm still working on it, though. Because my middle name is "big, fat, tenacious M."
  • On a more serious note, my friend Luann lost her father last week, and my heart is absolutely breaking for her. We haven't spent much time talking for several months, which is totally my fault, because I am the WORST BEST FRIEND EVER... Forgive me, Lulu, and know that whatever prayers I am able to pray are being sent out at lightning speed, headed straight atcha. Any of you who feel like helping me give oodles of love and warm hugs to my friend should head on over to Just Lu, and leave a sincere message of deepest sympathy. She hasn't posted for a long time, but that doesn't matter, I'm sure she'll see any new comments.
  • I am completely addicted to American Idol. This is the first year that nearly EVERYONE deserves to win. And I say nearly because, Miss Christy Lee Cook deserves only to be chased off that stage and a formal apology and RE-invite sent out to hunky Michael Johns. Who NEVER should have been ousted from that show at such an early stage, thank you very much. Is it crazy that I have, like, NOT enough money to pay my bills, yet am seriously contemplating spending 60-something dollars on itunes, downloading every song by Michael Johns, David Archuleta, Jason Castro, Carly Smithson, and Brooke White (except for the putrid version of "Here Comes the Sun" which made my head spin around backwords and made me spontaneously spit LATIN words in the general direction of the television screen)? Yeah, I thought so too, which is why I haven't done it yet. But soon, SOON, I will not be able to resist.
  • The "work that has of yet not been completed" saga continues at my office. I heard through the grapevine that I am to receive an ass chewing of epic proportions on Tuesday, should I sweep through the doors with less than THREE completed bankruptcies in tow. Damn bunch of whiners, calling to complain simply because it's been a COUPLE of months since you paid for your bankruptcy to be filed... I told you I'd GET TO IT, as soon as I could! Do you know how busy I am in a day? There are Scrabulous moves to be made, Twitter-y tweats to be read, emails to answer, books to be ordered from, "Can I help you?" smiles to be practiced, (only because you FROWN on me greeting clients with my standard, "What the fuck do YOU want?" oh Fearless Leader"), and delicious, nutritious lunches to be planned, shopped for, and prepared. And then devoured, of course.
  • I am, however, proud to announce that I have completed 1.87 of said bankruptcies, and shall be wearing my "That's right, motherfucker, I AM the queen" smirk come Tuesday morning. So stick THAT in your backpocket, you smarmy bitches. (and by you, I mean someone(s) OTHER than you, sweet readers. Stop being so touchy!)
  • I posed a hypothetical question to Husband this weekend. And it was this: "How long do you plan on punishing me, you self-righteous, scum-sucking, smug bastard?" To which his answer was thus: "Well, how long have you punished ME? 24 years? Yeah, probably about THAT long..." So, since my sins were committed mostly about 4 years ago, seems I'm gonna be doin' hard time for about twenty more years. *sigh* Somehow, forgiveness doesn't MEAN the same thing in my house, as it does for the REST of humanity...
  • I watched "Martian Child" this weekend, and a better movie has not been viewed by yours truly in some time. I highly recommend it should there be some of you who have not yet seen it. Awesome movie. John Cusack has moved right onto my "Oh he's TOTALLY do-able" list.
  • In other fab news, Juno will be released on DVD this week, and I urge you to RUN, not walk, to your nearest Wal-Mart, to purchase this FABULOUS movie. I swear you will not be disappointed. I'd say if you didn't like it, I'd PERSONALLY refund your money, but I'm sure SOME of you, *cough Avitable cough*, would email me with a long list of complaints, simply to cash in on my innocence. Seriously, check out this movie if you are among the 3 or 4 people who haven't seen it.
This concludes another fine edition of MEANINGLESS MEANDERING MONDAY, and we now return you to your regularly scheduled, boring, hum-drum existences....

The End.

Friday, April 11, 2008

The answers, they just KEEP coming!!!


I'm on your blogroll, but how come you don't visit me religiously like I do you???

I'm sorry, Burfie. I don't visit anyone religiously. I'll try to do better, I promise.

NYC Watchdog:

I just want to know the basics, like...
1) Coke or Pepsi?
2) Diet soda or not?
2a) If diet, is it for the taste or the calories?
2b) If not, then what do you have against diet?
3) Meat or potatoes?
3a) If meat, what's your favorite cut?
3b) If potatoes, then what do you have against meat?
4) What is your favorite color?
4a) If your favorite color is orange, then why is your blog background red?
4b) If your favorite color isn't orange, then why isn't it?
4c) Orange is the new pink, did you know that?
5) What made you first start blogging?
5a) How long have you been blogging?
5b) Why did you wait so long until you started blogging?
5c) How long do you think you'll blog for?

My God, you don't wanna know much, do you? *deep breath* ok, here goes:

Diet Coke all the way. With Lime, too. Because I've been drinking Diet Coke since it was created....

Meat AND Potatoes. Ribeye. But I also love turkey and chicken. Baked potatoes, french fries, and sweet potato chips.

My favorite color is pink. My blog background is red because red is just cool. And also because whoever created this blogskin deemed it thusly. I have nothing against orange, but pink will always be the BEST pink.

I started blogging because a friend suggested it. He thought it would help me be less crazy. He was wrong. I think it's been close to four years. Or maybe 3. Hell, I'm HORRIBLE with time. I never even HEARD of blogging till my friend told me about it. I THINK I will blog forever. But I could be wrong. I'm wrong a lot.


What's the worst thing you ever did as a teenager that you wish to God you could take back?

I took a lot of valium, locked my bedroom door and went to bed. Scared the fuck out of my mother, who found me....

Now tell me yours...


If I stroke your ego will you stroke mine?



Were you in any clubs when you were in school?
What did you think of kids that were in clubs?
I've taken tylenol, advil, and tylenol sinus, yet my head still hurts. Why?

I think I joined the Bible Club, to get my picture taken, because I looked REALLY good that day. Also, I was in FBLA... hahahahaha, my God, what a fucking HOOT that was.
As I general rule, I hated kids that were in clubs. But then, as a general rule, I hated everybody.
Your head hurts because your husband is a PRISSY GIRL. hee.


What was your other blog? (I told you I was nosey)

I get to play the *I can't answer this question* card, because doing so would reveal my real name to a possible psychotic stalker who will then come gut me like a fish... But if you'd like, you can ask me another nosey question, and I'll try to answer it...

Bubbles (who isn't fooling anybody, MITCHELL):

To Avitable, get semen out by licking it.
To Bina, got married.
To Thopgood, only if you stroke her first.
To Dory, xanax bar will make your head stop hurting.
To Use To Be, She portrayed a lesbian transexual undergoing aromatherapy.
To Mitchell, give me your e-harmony website.

These are not questions, you imbecile. But I do feel I have to expound on YOUR answers to MY questions:

I've never voluntarily licked semen out of anything. You, however, were friends with a gay guy, who gave you dope. hmmm. Got anything you'd like to share?

I do NOT regret getting married. I have two of the most amazing daughters in the world, and I would trade them for NOTHING. If I regret anything, it's what I did to RUIN my marriage. Or, staying IN a bad marriage, at least for the last 5 years.

I am always up for a good stroking.

Dory, don't listen to him. He's an ex-crack head. He just trying to dope you up so he can have his wiley way with you.

I most certainly did NOT portray a lesbian transexual. Where do you GET this stuff?

I'm telling Kate you have an e-harmony website. You are a lecherous OLD fuck. You're lucky I love you as much as I do.

Sleeping Mommy:

1. What is your biggest fear?
2. What is your guiltiest TV viewing pleasure?
3. Who at your house does the yardwork?
4. And does it get done on time, or only after the grass reaches the knees? (like it usually does at my house)

I have two giant fears: a) That my children will be harmed, and God help the motherfucker who does it; and b) That there are little army men in my jello. Cause seriously, nobody chews that shit! They could put ANYTHING in there!!!

My guiltiest TV viewing pleasure is probably Law & Order reruns. I'll watch it for HOURS. Also, Rob & Big. I'm trying to get Thing 1 to marry Rob. I'm sure he'll agree. She's always so PLEASANT!!!

I have no idea who does the yardwork. I only know it isn't me. Probably a combination of Husband, Thing 2, and Father-in-Law. Thing 1 wouldn't mow a blade of grass if it would save an endangered species. Neither would I.

No, usually our grass is so high that you have to watch out for bears when you go out to get in your car. I have taken to carrying a hot curling iron to my car with me. I'll either burn the fucker to death, or give him a nice wave......

I think that was the last of them. If I missed your question, or if you have another one for me? Comment me, darlings....

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Why Does Being Me Suck So Much?

So, taking a break from the questions, just for today.

I think I have more than my share of stress. Perhaps I'm just a big fat whinycrybabyface, but I struggle, continuously, to keep the shit and the muck out of my life, and keep my attention and my effort focused elsewhere.

But sometimes it just isn't possible. And it gets built up inside of me, twisting and throbbing and whispering and pulsating, like an evil thing, until I don't think I can stand it anymore. And then I usually have to come to my blog and rant and rave and scream and piss and moan, until I feel better.

Those of you who have been with me through multiple blogs know that I do this on occasion. And you're still here, so I have to assume that, either you don't MIND so much when I go apeshit, or you're as crazy as a soup sandwich yourself, and reading MY craziness makes YOU feel better about yours. I'm happy to help. You all know my middle name is "Help your fellow man."

Here are a few things that have me twisted up in knots, currently:

I'm missing my daddy. I haven't talked to him in a while, weeks actually, and the main reason for this is that when I DO talk to him, I only miss him more. I want to just drop everything and run to Florida for a visit, because nothing helps when you're feeling all of life's ICKY, like a visit with your DADDY.

Brother 2's life-suckage is creeping over into my space in a big way. This is, of course, due to him FLINGING it at me, in the hopes that I can make it all better. Because that's what I always do. When life hands HIM a bowl of lemons, *I* whip him up a frosty tall glass of lemonade. But this time, I don't feel like coming to his rescue. This time, I don't wanna be the hero. Maybe that sounds selfish. I don't care. This time, I want someone to rescue ME.

My job has gone to hell in a handbasket. I'm so behind in my work it isn't even funny. The only reason I still HAVE a job, is that I keep distracting my boss with delicious and nutritious lunches. Truly, the way to that ol' coot's heart is through his stomach. I can make a monstrous mistake, that costs us a client; then, when he is SCREAMING at me, I say, "You know, I haven't made EGGPLANT for you for a while. I'll pick up the stuff this evening and make it for you tomorrow. We'll settle up on money later." This does TWO things: IMMEDIATELY his eyes glaze over at the MENTION of the word eggplant. And his heart MELTS at the words "settle up later..." My boss is the KING of settling up later.

Thing 1 posted a vaguely pornographic picture of Thing 2 on her Facebook. And also on her MySpace. Ok, NOT pornographic, but... ICKY, nonetheless. Granted, since I know she will likely point this out in the comments, at first I laughed at the picture and posted a comment to it. Then I freaked out because THAT IS MY BABY, y'all, and I told her to take that picture the fuck down.

Thing 1 has a real problem with being told what to do. So, we argued. From a legal standpoint, I told her she could get in trouble, since she is over 21, for posting compromising pictures of her MINOR sister. Of course she then started looking up laws and statutes and legal codes..... Good God, she will argue until you don't have any brains left with which to make a valid point with her. She should truly make a good attorney.

At any rate, she finally took it down, but was extremely mean to me in the doing of it. And when I came home, Thing 2 met me at the fucking door and, catching the baton easily from her sister, continued the argument far into the night. For what it's worth, they both apologized for the way they talked to me, but I'm not in the mood to be forgiving, seeing as how I think they only apologized because I threatened to take away their concert tickets that I spent $150 of my NONEXISTENT secret horde of dollars.

There is something that I want that I CANNOT have. This is nothing new, as there is ALWAYS something that I want that I can't have. The difference here is, while always before I could daydream and fantasize what I would do when the thing I wanted DID finally belong to me, this time I don't know WHAT the fuck I would do with it if I had it. For the first time in my life, I want something that I don't want. That's me folks. A puzzle, wrapped in a big fucking pink enigma....

Husband seems to have stepped up his efforts to MAKE ME SPONTANEOUSLY DIE. There is more drinking involved. There is more, "But YOU are the LIAR and CHEAT. I am a VICTIM." There is more screaming. There is more suspicion. There is more doubt and dread and despair. Interestingly, there is also more ME, caring LESS and LESS. *sigh* Marriage is not easy. Bad marriages, well, they suck the grey hairs off a crippled old donkey's balls.

In the words of Thing 1, back in the day: "I hate my life. I hate the world...."